


Field of View

by trash_bat



Category: British Actor RPF, British Comedy RPF, Four Lions RPF, Nathan Barley RPF, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Actors, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Consensual Infidelity, Dirty Talk, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rare Pairings, Reunion Sex, Smoking, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 00:57:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18399878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_bat/pseuds/trash_bat
Summary: Chris is in Sheffield directing his debut feature,Four Lions.Ben, fresh off the firstSherlockseries, arrives to film his cameo. They have not seen one another since spending a week alone in the countryside months ago. Reunion sex, of sorts.





	Field of View

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wreathed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/gifts).



> This fic is a complete 2010 #mood. Recently found in drafts, vaguely tidied for posting. Un-beta'd, all mistakes my own.

Fuck.

Fuck, fucking fuckity fuck-all fuck.

It’s getting on four and they’re losing the light. They’re behind schedule. The set is seething chaos, a mire of extras in jogging gear and blinkering cop cars and wide-angle exteriors. His head is killing him. He wants a water and five coffees, a cold shower, a lie-down. Fucking Sheffield in fucking summer. Fucking crowd scenes.

A holiday is what he needs, a week in Spain not pretending that it’s the wilds of Pakistan. To get out of his miserable long-term flat rental for a few nights. Tapas and sleeping late rather than rocket launchers and air drones, courtesy of an effects team, running the budget up and up when it’s already much higher than it should be. A fortnight away from the madhouse that is the set, five needy leads -- had to be five -- a codependent writing team that has to be kowtowed into making any bloody changes at sodding shitting all.

He pinches between his eyes and then rubs his temples. It’s within his purview to call for a break, privilege of the director and all. But no, over budget behind schedule losing the light. He’d love a cup of tea and a fag, same as anyone. But they have to push through. The picture’s almost finished. Then there’s just post-production -- editing, sound, effects, reshoots. And then openings. Promotional shit. He’s sworn to do interviews this time. There’s even a plan to screen at Sundance, fly to America. He lifts the megaphone resignedly to his mouth and says, “Okay, everybody. Let’s try that again from the top.”

They reset for the start of the scene and he sneaks a furtive glance at his phone. He wonders when he’ll arrive. The text merely read -- _I’ll be there in the afternoon. B_

They wrap for the day at quarter to five. Ben shows up just before the clock ticks over and afternoon becomes evening. Not terribly punctual. Already angling for a reaction, I’m so fucking sure.

Ben has used the interval since he saw him last to grow a beard, which arrives almost before he does as he strides over, confidently, to where Chris is watching rough footage of the day’s filming. He’s wearing a plaid shirt, white and black and green, with the sleeves rolled up, and his hair is two different colours, darker at the edges from where it’s been dyed. The curls at the sides are swooping up into pointy wings. Mussed, maybe, if he fell asleep on the train. Growing out his real hair, more likely. Have to put a hat on him, I suppose.

Minimal blocking for his scene, won’t take but ten minutes to walk through. A close-up, just a couple of peaked cap coppers milling about in day-glo vests. Have him lean on the car, maybe. Send him off to wardrobe, see what Charlotte decides to dress him in. He looks around for one the production assistants; spies sycophantic Robbie and then thinks better of it. He’ll wait for Jen. He’s pretty sure she’s a dyke, anyways.

Ben, of course, looks fucking adorable.

As expected. And yet not expected, because he is now there on the fucking set, all crinkly wide grin and sloping shoulders. He seems older, somehow, even though it’s only been a couple of months. It must be the facial hair.

“Hello, hello. Here I am,” he smiles, coming right over to their makeshift station. He sets down his weekender bag near Chris’ feet. Lol and Billy glance up and then go right back to poking at screens and fiddling with knobs. They shake hands, Ben’s cool fingertips lingering on the inside of his wrist. He wonders if he can plead off early with the onset of a migraine, save the rushes for tomorrow. But that would seem too suspect, and having Ben around is going to be distracting enough in its own right. Tomorrow is a big day, more crowd scenes, more effects and stunts. He squints up at the fading sun.

“Hi Ben, glad that you could join us,” Chris notes, the slightest hint of reproval in his voice. Ben lifts his right eyebrow just a tiny bit. “The train was delayed,” he says, barely teasing in return, “I would have been here forty minutes ago otherwise.”

Chris nods and starts patting down his pockets, searching for his cigarettes. “Let me just grab a fag first, Ben,” he says -- more for the benefit of his film editor and cinematographer, who aren’t really paying much attention anyways. “We’ll talk through the blocking, and then I can introduce you to the cast. Everyone usually sticks around for a while, and then fucks off down the pub for an hour or two. We have some screening to do, here, but I’ll pass you along to Jen, the PA. She’ll take you over to costuming and makeup.”

Ben nods with understanding. “Sounds good,” he says. “Mind if I join you?” he mimes, the universal gesture of smokers’ solidarity.

“Sure. Guys, I’ll be back in twenty, okay?” he tells the two men. “We’ll watch the rough cuts then.” Lol doesn’t even look up, but Billy says, absently, “We’ll be right here.”

They walk a dozen paces down the pavement, just out of earshot. Need to speak quietly, though. Can’t give anything away. The whole set is still miked up. If they could talk frankly, what would he say anyways? Playing at being butch, Benedict? You look like you need it rough with a beard like that. I’m going to have you on all fours tonight until your knees are peeling with carpet burn.

Chris offers Ben the pack of Camels but he just wrenches up his mouth and holds up his own. Gauloises. Francophilia, he thinks. He’d be a courtier at the fucking Moulin Rouge if he had any say in the matter. Art and courtesans, prostitutes and dance halls. The image of a slowly turning red windmill takes his mind to the steeples of Montmartre, the cancan and the cabaret. Baz Luhrman, the modern musical. Then absinthe, the green fairy, the lines of the post-Impressionists, architecture, the onset of Art Nouveau.

Art. Art makes him think of Peter, his well-known obsession with van Gogh. Which leads him straight back to that bio-doc thing Ben did, talking directly to the camera. Severe clothes of a Dutch Protestant, closeups of his quick fingers flipping through Eliot, Dickens, Keats. He has to shake away the image of Ben as a subject of one of Peter’s hastily composed sketches, mechanical pencil lovingly lingering on the planes of his face. Or worse, draping him in fabric and bedclothes; arranging him like a well-fucked lover and painting him. Chris feels a flare of jealousy like a kick in the shins and he can’t seem to make his lighter work.

“Here,” says Ben, cupping the flame in his hands. “Thanks,” he answers, inhaling gratefully. Trying to tamp down the thought of Peter in his fucking pretentious Charles Saatchi plastic framed glasses leaning in to move an arm or deliberately rumple a piece of fabric. Touching Ben, kissing Ben, stroking him with clever fingers. Laying him on the bed and exploring every inch of him, casually, the fucking gross familiarity of one who got there first.

Ben’s head bows as he lights his own cigarette. Then he reaches in to the shoulder bag and pulls out the script, spiral bound. He comes closer, the smoke from his fag wafting up and stinging Chris’ eyes. He smells very faintly of cucumbers and their hips barely touch. Chris takes another flustered drag as Ben flips the script open to the final pages, talking all the while.

“I’d like to go through a few things with you, briefly. How you want me to play it. I know,” he says, letting the pages fall open to reveal a plain white hotel envelope with a room number scrawled on it tucked into the fold, “that Ed is pretty inept at his job.” Chris wants to beam. _Crafty little thing. Made a little detour to the Hilton first, I see._ “You would be right,” he says. He takes another drag.

Ben continues in a low voice. “Based on the lines, though, how _virginal,_ ” and he stresses the word, making it sound stunningly dirty, “do you want him to come across?”

Chris makes as if to point to a section of dialogue, neatly folding the envelope in half while it’s still hidden by the script, and then placing it in his jeans pocket. Discreetly. “I trust your judgment, Ben,” he says, “but Ed is quite inexperienced. If you could let some of that insecurity show. Even if, maybe, you could make your voice break--” and he can hear Ben inhale at that, exactly, on the ‘please.’ _That same pretty pleading you do pinned under me._

“I think I can manage that,” Ben says, flipping the script shut and flicking his cigarette away onto the ground. _Mussing the set?_ he wonders. _We are done for the day._ He drops his own fag end and grinds it with a toe. He touches Ben’s elbow and says, “Shall we walk through the blocking and then send you off to makeup? The hair,” and he looks deliberately at Ben’s head, then down to his face, his defiant little chin, “will have to be covered up.” Ben gives him a look and nods back. Chris doesn’t make mention of the beard.

He leaves Ben in Jen’s capable hands, his mind sixty percent preoccupied with how much he wants to pull on that ridiculous-looking hair, forty percent trying to concentrate on getting the fuck done for the day. Making his way to the Hilton, which Ben insisted on paying for himself, out of pocket. His taste far exceeds what they’ve got the budget for, and it’s not like he can invite him to stay at the rental. Mark is just down the hall, Christ knows what kinds of noises he might overhear. Besides, Ben is a screamer.

He fingers the envelope inside his pocket. It feels like there’s a keycard sealed inside. He thinks of Ben standing over the oak-veneer desk, scrawling the number -- 307-- on an envelope. Standing up and licking the flap, sealing it shut. Humming to himself as he marked the page, laying it there like a bookmark. Bringing his suitcase along to the set even though he had stopped off at the hotel.

Great. Now his brain is only ten percent focussed on the remaining tasks and the rest of it is imagining Ben and his tongue, and that, that will never do. He walks away from the wardrobe caravan back over to the rest of the team to crack on.

It’s far too late by the time he finishes. Nearly nine. He’s jolty with adrenaline, tin-headed with tiredness. A lot had to be discarded; there’s going to be reshoots tomorrow. Hopefully the sky will stay clear. If it rains they are all so fucked - hundred-odd extras standing around drinking watery cups of tea, costing time, costing money. He tries not to let those thoughts consume him as he makes his way to the hotel, driving his own battered Volkswagen. An overnight bag stuffed in the boot, hidden under a pile of rain jackets and scratchy woolen picnic blankets. He drums his fingers on the wheel, impatiently, while he sits at a red light.

They had exchanged texts after Ben left, spaced sixteen and twenty-two minutes apart. When the engineers were fiddling with controls, during every smoke break.

_Do you want to have dinner?_

_Is that an invitation?_

_Only if you want it to be._

_What are you wearing?_

_What do you want me to be wearing?_

_You’re being quite cheeky._

_I have no idea what you’re getting at._

_Boom in the frame, might be a while._

_Okay._

_Back, on my way over now._

_I’ll be expecting you._

_I hope that means what I think it does._

He flicks his fag end out the cracked-open window as he pulls into the car park. Grabbing his bag he makes his way to the lobby, finds the lifts. It’s not a big town, and bits of gossip -- _‘Infamous Brasseye trickster spotted scoping locations in downtown Sheffield’_ \-- seem to leak their way onto the internet, into local news items. Probably just curious members of the public, if not the way-more-than-a-little obsessives he seems to attract. 

Not like he goes searching them out on the web, or anything, but Ben has told him of their existence. And that he gets approached, constantly, by strangers in the pub, the grocery store. “You!” they tell him, “You’re the bloke from Nathan Barley! Good on you, mate.” Ben would be gracious, he’s always very very gracious -- even if his hands were full, trying to decide which packet of biscuits to buy, he would set them down, share a handshake, sign an autograph, pose for a photo. He laughs when he tells Chris these little stories, happy at the hilarity of it all. “No one,” he’ll say, “gives a toss about me as Stephen Hawking or William Pitt or Joseph Hooker, you know. Robin, though--” he’ll break off with a gesture, and a sideways smile, “him, they fucking love. You have a very dedicated fan base.”

Why anyone gives a toss about what he gets up to, that, frankly, he doesn’t get. Nor does he understand why the populace at large are so eager to divulge every facet of their personal information via what is, in all actuality, surveillance technology. Twitter? What is wrong with people? But what can you do? People, he thinks -- ridiculous exhibitionists with borderline personality disorders en fucking masse.

He presses the button for the third floor, already reaching into his pocket for the keycard as the doors open. He won’t let his eyes linger on the reflection that greets him -- seriously, what is the deal with hotels and mirrors all over the fucking place? Looking at himself is Ben’s preoccupation, not his own. His face is, if not frightening, then certainly not the odd aesthetic triumph that Ben’s is. Far-set eyes and comically upturned lips, and yet he looks perfect.

Chris knows he’s self-conscious, frowning in the glass after he takes his drawn-out baths. Examining his skin, his pores, his eyebrows. He’s vain, sure, but he’s more afraid of fading. Watery beauty diluted into something tired and sad, weak as the rubbish tinctures of homeopathy. They mean nothing, but they have lovely names, like something from Macbeth -- agrimony, clematis, gentian, rock rose. Tutting at the fine lines blossoming on the sides of his eyes, like tissue paper crumpled over and over again until it’s fibreless and soft. He probably sneaks gobs of Olivia’s expensive night cream when he’s at home.

He finds the right door. He raps on it lightly, twice, and then starts to fiddle with the keycard, but stops when he feels the handle twist from the inside. He twists inside, too, as Ben is peeking out from behind the door, darting cautious glances up and down the hallway, and then pulling him inside. Chris pushes the door closed as they face one another. He drops his bag suddenly because all at once he is being lunged at by six feet of squirmy, skinny Benedict Cumberbatch.

They kiss hard and Chris bites Ben’s lower lip, sucks it between his own. He tastes like vanilla and his mouth is cold. Ice cream, he thinks, as he slams Ben into the wall. They were supposed to do something about dinner. They haven’t even made it past the entryway.

He breaks away from the kissing, reminding himself not to leave marks on Ben’s neck, given that makeup will definitely notice those. He cups Ben’s face in his right hand. The beard is scratchy, under his fingers, and he knows his lips are already chafed from it. He allows himself to breathe in the smell of him, through his mouth, for a brief moment. It doesn’t last long, given that Ben’s fingers are already unbuttoning his shirt, given that Ben has lost his own t-shirt in short order, given that he now has Ben pinned up against the wall with his mile-long legs wrapped around him, hands buried in his hair.

He grinds up against him, hands cupping under Ben’s arse, holding him up, kneading with his fingers. Wishing he could fuck him, just like that, standing missionary,the way you can do with a woman. He carries limpet Ben over to the bed, laying him down, covering his body with his own. Taking off his jeans and boxers simultaneously, kicking them over into a crumple at the foot of the bed. Reaching down Ben’s grey jogging bottoms, no buttons or zips. Not even any pants, he finds, as he closes his hand around Ben’s cock, getting a pleased whimper in return. He slicks his thumb along the head, relishing how wet it gets, so fucking quickly.

He pulls his hand away and yanks down the elastic waistband with both hands, exposing Ben’s lovely leaky cock. He falls back on top of him, fisting their dicks together, feeling them both get slippery, harder. Ben is already flushed and writhing underneath him, and when he moves his tacky fingers down to feel his hole, it’s already wet and stretched out. He was getting ready for me. Jesus, that’s hot, he thinks, rewarding Ben’s foresight with two fingers plunged in deep. Ben chokes out a gasp, and recoils. He pushes his hips up and away, like he wants to avoid them, but then just as quickly snaps them back down onto fingers that don’t have time to tease.

He’s dizzy with desire and tiredness. And hard, so fucking hard, thinking of Ben alone on this giant bed, touching his own arsehole, moaning softly to himself, feet hitched up over his head, arse in the air. _Mine_ , he thinks, possessive as fuck, stabbing in and again with his fingers. Ben squirms, then throws his head back as Chris starts wanking him, watching him.

 _Mine._ They don’t speak of it, never have openly, but they both know. Ben can suck and touch and wank with whomever. Olivia, obviously, and she’s a dear. His colleagues, probably. Or friends. Tom, Mark, Rupert, Paul, Oliver, John, Chris, probably, he shudders to think of it, probably even that Glaswegian git Peter Capaldi. Fuck him. Not like he’s about to fuck Ben, hard and with no fucking remorse, the only cock he gets up his arse a relentless and punishing one. _No condoms_ , he told him, when it was still early days. _I want to to feel all of you._ The unspoken message: _Don’t you dare fuck anyone else. The rest you can do -- don’t rub it in my face, you spoilt pretty young thing -- but if you ever do that, ever, we’re fucking done for._

Even as he thinks this he’s withdrawing his fingers, still oily-slick. He’s pushing Ben’s shins back, over his head, spreading his legs. It’s good that he’s so pliant, so greedy. He presses his cock against his hole and thinks about waiting, teasing. Making him beg for it. He could do all that, but he looks at Ben’s flushed face, framed by his skinny calves, and sinks his cock inside of him without another thought. Ben cries out, unintelligible. His hands are around Chris’ neck, and his own neck looks beyond inviting. He bites Ben’s shoulder instead, down where it won’t show, and then starts rocking, rocking more than thrusting.

Ben sounds strangled, clutching uselessly at fistfuls of the sheets. The bed is unmade, he’s probably been in it since he left the set. He no doubt had a peremptory wank, as well, because he’s not as desperate as he usually gets. He feels amazing, the smooth skin of his backside getting clammy where Chris is pressed up against him, not even a millimetre of space between them. The headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall, and he reminds himself to thank Ben later for getting them a hotel room, where the person next door isn’t also your executive producer.

Wordlessly, he picks up Ben’s hand in his own, guides it so he’s touching his cock. That’s when he starts to lose control, worming his hand between the tight crush of their bodies, whining, yelping. Almost instinctively he covers Ben’s open mouth with his hand, muffling all those delicious noises, feeling the scratch of hair under his fingers. His eyes go wide and then he bites the heel of Chris’ hand like a gingery kitten. Chris waits for Ben’s eyes to close, for him to shudder and shiver and gnaw on his palm as he comes -- utterly, utterly beautiful -- before he lets himself tip over as well.

When Ben’s breathing slows to something approaching normal pace he wriggles his way out of and off of him. Ben groans as he rolls his pelvis back down on to the mattress. He puts his hand on his forehead as Chris leans over and digs in the pocket of his discarded jeans for his fags. _Shit. Must have left them in the car._

“Ben?” he asks, turning around, “I left my fags in the car. Do you mind?”

Ben looks over at him, bleary eyed, lifting his head from the neck. He looks strained, sated. He waves a languid hand in the direction of the desk as he closes his eyes again. “Over there,” he indicates in a raspy voice. _Cheeky,_ he thinks. _Out of order_. He pokes Ben’s ribcage with one fingertip. He’s put on a little weight around the abdomen since he last saw him naked. Barely noticeable. Ben slits open one eye and heaves out an exasperated sigh. He pushes himself up and walks across the room, bare-arsed, bending over to empty the dirty ashtray into the bin. He glides past a room-service trolley on his way over. _Sweets, probably. No self-control there either_.

Chris pulls his own boxers back on as Ben sets the ashtray on the side table, next to the telephone, tossing his fancy French fags down, along with a pack of matches, onto the rumpled bed. He seizes upon them quickly, lighting his match one-handed, inhaling gratefully. It honestly feels like the first opportunity he’s had to sit down all bloody day. Ben is watching him, intent and pale-eyed, his face breaking into a broad grin. Taut lines around his mouth, like his skin is stretched too tightly. “Hi, by the way,” he says, smiling. Chris takes another drag and looks up at his face, so open. “Hello,” he says back. “Do you not want a smoke?”

“I’m trying to cut down,” Ben tells him, taking the cigarette from between Chris’ fingers and taking two drags before passing it back, turning and exhaling over his right shoulder. “I was so bloody sick, you have no idea. During filming. Freezing Cardiff, rain, all the damn time. My voice must have dropped an octave,” he gestures, the italics of his intonation almost visible in the air. “Sick?” he asks, but with his mind already back on tomorrow, back on schedule. Back on track. “So sick,” answers Ben. “I thought it was a cold. And then I thought it was the flu. But it was bronchitis that turned into pneumonia. I had to go on antibiotics.” He filches another drag.

His mind is elsewhere, full of call times and last minute blocking changes. “I’m going to hop in the shower,” Ben says, nonchalantly, turning to walk away. Even full of distractions, he nonetheless loves to watch him leave -- lying on his side, putting the ashtray beside him. Ben is casually naked; being studiously indifferent to the effect he has on Chris. It’s not like he can even contemplate getting hard again, but Ben is being deliberately provocative. He keeps the bathroom door wide open, turning on the water, talking loudly the whole time. “We should probably eat something,” he says, adjusting the knobs to get the temperature just so. So fussy.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m already sick of room service,” Ben declares, stepping under the spray. He keeps the glass shower door open too, angling the nozzle towards the tiled wall so it doesn’t splash all over the floor. “Should we order in? I’m fine with whatever. Although -- maybe not curry, which you’ve probably gone off by now, I’m sure. I know I would have.” Then he’s quiet for a bit, as he’s getting his hair wet, washing his face. Letting Chris watch, spy on these intimate moments of ablution. It feels like the voyeurism of the Impressionists, but, he thinks, grinding his fag out into the glass, I should know better than to think of art. If I could draw, he starts, looking up again, I would draw you flush from the bath, drying one leg with a foot on the radiator. The sweet cleft of your arse being wiped with a threadbare ivory towel. A blue pitcher of water at your elbow, hoarfrost on the window pane.

He’s just fucked him within an inch of his life, and already he wants to do so again. “I would eat pizza, if you’re into that,” Ben shouts over the spray, as he then cups the water in his hands and splashes it across his face, washing his hair quickly and without ceremony. Chris watches the water slide between his pectoral muscles, down his stomach. Scrubbing his armpits. Gathering in great soapy sheets to cascade off his balls as he cleans underneath them. It’s hypnotic, and he rinses himself off, turning the stream to silent. He drips onto the mat, wrapping himself ithe complementary terrycloth bathrobe and then grabbing a towel, tilting his head this way and that to dry his hair. He comes back over to stand in front of Chris, wiping his face and beard into the damp towel. The room is steamy; the mirror across from the bed has started to fog up.

Chris sits up against the headboard, a hand behind his head. “Pizza’s fine, if that’s what you want.” Ben is already pulling out the yellow pages and flipping through them, one-handed, picking up the phone. He can hear the dial tone. “What do you want on it?” he asks, putting his index finger on a listing and holding it there. There are little wisps of curls clinging to his neck. The smell of cheap bar soap radiates from him.

“Whatever,” he grumbles, “No, wait. Olives. And onion. And a Pepsi.” Ben rolls his eyes and dials a number, gives the name of the hotel and places the order. “Just on half,” he says, insistently. “The onions. The olives are fine, but not the onions. Did you get that? Can you read it back to me, just so I know you’ve got it? Okay. Great. Sure, see you then. Room 307.”

He puts the receiver back in its cradle and goes back to towelling dry his hair, absent-mindedly. Then he tosses the towel aside and stretches himself alongside Chris on the bed. He lies on his stomach, kicking his feet up and down. The bathroom light is still on, too bright. He pushes up and flicks it off and then rests his head on his upper arm, watching Ben kick his feet.

“I’m sorry to hear you got sick,” he says, after a pause.

Ben lets out a laugh, “Jesus, so was I. Everyone was really worried. But it all worked out for the best, in the end.” Ben reaches over for the fags and lights his own, positioning the ashtray between their forearms.

“How was it?” he asks, genuinely curious. “It was good,” Ben says, taking a drag and handing him the fag. Their fingers touch. “Really good. I mean, the script is stunning. There are definitely some plot holes -- unless you’d rather I not tell you?” he asks.

“Well, maybe don’t spoil it entirely,” Chris says, passing it back, coughing into his fist. “Just the bare bones will do.”

Ben shakes his head, “Are you admitting that you’re going to watch _television_ , Christopher? I am dumbfounded.”

He swats at Ben’s shoulder, “Oh, shut up. Go on, tell me. We have a bit, right, before the pizza gets here?”

Ben nods, “It could be a while. It is Friday night. So, yeah, it’s the very first time Sherlock and John- they’re on a first-name basis, it is the twenty-first century after all -- the first time they meet. The dialogue is very good, if a bit heavy-handed with the homoeroticism in places.”

Chris gives Ben a quizzical look, taking the fag back. It’s almost gone, the filter soggy with shared saliva. “How so?” he says, on the exhale.

“Oh, there are so many little digs and double entendres throughout the whole thing. That’s mostly Mark’s doing. He thinks it’s hilarious. Did you know, “ he continues, blowing smoke up in a stream towards the ceiling, “that he wrote gay erotica under a pseudonym back in the nineties? He’s sure the whole gay subtext will be a bit hit with the ladies.” Chris just cocks an eyebrow at this, yet another nuance of popular culture that’s lost on him.

“There’s certainly some indication that Sherlock sleeps with men, which of course makes a change from the asexuality of the books. But you have to wonder--” he holds the fag out, Chris shakes his head no and he stubs it out, “--what there is to be gained by judging historical personages and fictional characters by the standards of modern day psychology. I guess that’s part of the reason they took the character in this different direction.” Chris is watching Ben’s lips as he speaks -- voice scratchy but enunciation perfect -- and he wants to gnaw on them.

“Because really,” Ben goes on, much more animated by now, “who’s to say that asexuality isn’t completely valid as an identity, whether now or then? I’ve read the source material. I think there’s more to Holmes and Watson than Conan Doyle lets on, but I don’t actually think it’s the same kind of relationship that Mark and Stephen have written.”

“Meaning what?” he asks, picking the ashtray up and relocating it to the side table,

“Meaning that I don’t see Sherlock fancying John, honestly. And definitely not the other way around. Martin’s so bloody heterosexual, he couldn’t play it any other way.”

Chris _hmms_ thoughtfully. Ben, true to form, keeps talking. “And then there’s the whole other issue of Lestrade, Rupert’s character. That seems much more plausible to me. I think Sherlock is a bit of a masochist, and I could see Lestrade delivering.” _Are we talking about your character, now, or you? I know you like to be hurt. I’m thrilled to get to do it._ “You’re going to get a kick out of this one scene, very early on, that involves a riding crop. It made me think of you, when we were filming it,” he chuckles, rubbing Chris’ calf with his foot.

“How so?” he asks, curiosity piqued. _I could dress you up like a stablehand . Ride you like a stallion at Ascot._

“Are you taking the piss?” Ben says, punching him on the shoulder, “You know exactly what I mean.”

He nods, “Right, right. So,” he goes on “You thought about me, then?”

“Sometimes, sure. I mean, Olivia was there for a while, we were sharing the flat, and her part wasn’t major, so she was around a lot. I mean, that’s why I didn’t call or whatever,” Ben rambles, like he’s hiding a guilty secret. Playing around. It’s all right, he’s allowed. He’s not a geisha in sweats, for fuck’s sake.

He rolls back over and presses the length of their bodies together, working his thigh between Ben’s still clammy legs. He can feel his body tense against him as he winds the edge of the white bathrobe belt around his left hand, wrapping it up as he pulls it out. Ben makes a confused little noise and lets his head flop down, lets his temple hit the mattress. His same hand travels inside the bathrobe, over to grab Ben’s lower back - slightly softer than the last time. “That junk food is going to your hips, Ben,” he says, sliding his palm down to his arse and giving it a forceful squeeze.

“Oh, sod off,” Ben chirps, even as he’s smiling against Chris’ neck as he pulls the front of the robe open, presses his body even closer. Seaming them together like a potter joining coils of sticky clay. He keeps stroking Ben’s hip with that hand wrapped like a bare-knuckle boxer.

He nuzzles his ear, whispering in a low buzz, “Tell me more about Sherlock, why don’t you,” as he rolls his hips, pushes his pelvis close. “If he doesn’t fancy John, who does he like? Or,” he says, pulling the robe the rest of the way off, feeling Ben shiver, “maybe I should ask _what_ , instead.”

Ben grunts as Chris rolls him onto his back, running fingers along the length of his stiffening cock. Going down to kiss his chest and then to twist his nipple, just to hear him choke out a gasp. It would be nice to hurt him, just a little. Ben’s hips push up, trying to get more friction. He laughs at the effort and holds him down, covering his cock with his hand, cupping it to Ben’s stomach. Not stroking, but feeling him harden, see his eyes start to roll back in his head.

“So?” he says, licking wetly up Ben’s chest and neck, breathing sleazy against his ear, “What does Sherlock like? I’m sure you have some idea. Is he as easy as you are, Ben?” he asks, closing his fingers around Ben’s dick, loosely forming a fist and starting to stroke. “Is he dirty like you are? Does he like to wear women’s knickers and take it up the arse? Does he like to suck cock like you do?” Ben groans but doesn’t answer, which is boring. He stops moving his hand. “Ben?” he inquires. No response. He pulls his hand away, releasing Ben’s cock. It bounces up off his stomach, hard and slick.

“Aw, fuck, Chris. I don’t know. He probably arranges meetings on the internet. He loves technology. I don’t see him as the type to frequent clubs.”

Chris nods, takes him in hand once again. “Good, very good. More, I want more,” he insists.

“Shit, um. I think he likes it rough, even more than I do. Meaner, maybe. Being used. And anonymity. Oh,” he breathes out, as Chris tightens his grip. “Th-there’s at least three scenes with him being choked,” Ben says, “which seems a little -- ah, shit -- gratuitous.”

Chris has to smile at this. How many times has he longed to put both hands on Ben’s white neck as he fucks him, to feel him gasping and breathless. To throttle him almost to the point of fainting, and then releasing him just as his orgasm shakes his foundations like an earthquake. Can’t do that now, but he can play at it. “Is that so,” Chris asks, unfurling the belt from his hand and draping it lightly across Ben’s neck, pushing his fingers into his still-damp hair. He rolls on top of him and kisses him. Ben clutches at his shoulders, lets his legs fall apart. His hand comes to rest very lightly on Ben’s throat, “Maybe not tonight,” he murmurs, “but soon.” A tiny moan escapes Ben’s parted lips, and he’s suddenly so tired of playing and waiting.

“Shall I fuck you again before our dinner arrives?” he enquires of Ben’s neck, smiling at the hurried nod he gets in return. “Ben?” he asks, “do you remember what I told you on the phone?” Ben nods. He backs away a little bit, lifting up enough for Ben to wriggle onto his stomach. The robe is tangled up around them. He chucks it on the floor, then trails his fingers from the top of Ben’s neck down his spine, around each cheek.

The lube is on the bed, still, from where Ben was playing with himself earlier. En route to grabbing it he swats at Ben’s backside, relishing the yelp it draws up. He does it again, just to hear that noise again, muffled by the mattress.

“Come, now, Ben. You look good on all fours. On your hands and knees.” Ben pushes himself into position, his back flat as a tabletop until Chris runs his hand along it and his hips tilt up, his spine arching. He smacks his behind once more for good measure. “You greedy little thing,” he chides, affectionately. The belt has slipped off his neck and he picks it back up, thinking about knotting it around Ben’s neck, using it like a leash to tether him as he fucks him into oblivion.

Chris keeps smacking him, not a real session, just erratically -- only because he can’t resist the allure of feeling that tight flesh spring back under his palm, the way the skin goes all pinky and hot with every ricochet. Ben is getting louder, exclaiming, “Oh, fuck,” after every slap. He’s clawing at the sheets, rocking gently back and forth into Chris’ palm. He hits him hard across the backside, once more for good measure, and then pulls his own boxers down. His cock springs up against Ben’s arse -- supple and splotchy. He slicks his cock up and slides in quickly, asking no questions, not even telling him it’s about to happen.

“Oh, fuck, fuck,” Ben cries out. He pumps his hips hard, a dozen quick thrusts and then pulls out right away, letting the hot tip rest on Ben’s right buttock. He whines, tips his hips back. Chris puts one hand on Ben’s lower back, holding him steady, bumping his hard-on into him, slapping his hip every now and then. “Fuck, Chris, fuck,” he moans, bracing himself on his forearms, burying his forehead between them -- as if in presenting himself like that he’s more likely to get fucked for real.

He guides his cock to Ben’s arsehole and lets it linger there, just with the lightest bit of pressure. A rocking thrust in, all the way. Slower this time, drawing all the way in and out with every movement. Ben is splayed under him like a frog, hiding his face. He pulls his cock out, lets it pulse in his hand before slapping it against Ben’s arse. It sounds wet and leaves a sticky trail of lube and precome. This he rubs in to Ben’s skin, pushing with his thumb, relishing his whimpers.

“Why aren’t you begging me for it, yet, Ben?” he says, cooly. “And why have you slid down there like that? I thought I told you. Control yourself. Get back up here.” Ben pushes himself up again onto his hands and knees, and Chris rewards him by sliding his cock back in and leaving it there, plunged in deep. He can feel his nuts swinging, feel Ben grow clammy and tense underneath him.

“Fuck yourself on it, Ben. Go on. Fuck yourself like the greedy little bitch you are,” he rasps out, gripping Ben’s hips tighter. Ben rocks himself along his length, groaning every time it slides in fully. He rests his hands gently on Ben’s lower back, the barest of touches. Able to stare as long as he likes. Seeing him crack open like this, the spidery hairs on antique bone china. Watching the articulation of his vertebrae as his head bends forward onto the sheet.

“Get your head up, Ben,” he orders, and his neck snaps up to attention. If he can’t keep him in line physically, now, then he certainly can do so with words. And he knows how much Ben likes to be talked through it. The phone call last week certainly provided ample evidence for that. He runs with this idea, pulling Ben in by his waist, delivering a monologue in a tone he hopes is both bored and filthy. On every thrust -- “Is Sherlock a slut like you are, Ben? Does he troll the internet for anonymous cock? Does he like it on all fours as well?” Ben just moans, and Chris slaps him again, “I would hope he would have the courtesy to answer me, unlike you.” He thrusts in hard and Ben shouts at the wall.

“If you won’t answer me, I suppose there’s nothing for me to do but gag you, is there, Ben?” he asks, picking the belt up and leaning forward to loop it around Ben’s head. “Open your mouth and bite down on that,” he says, knotting it tightly around the back of his head. He reaches up and fists a hand into Ben’s hair, until his neck ripples up. It’s hard to keep a grip, his curls are still damp, so he works his fingers around the back of the gag and _pulls_ , not enough to really hurt, but enough to keep Ben upright. He can hear a muffled gasp through the terrycloth. He yanks a little harder and Ben goes even tighter. That’s his cue to stop playing games and he gives it to him, at fucking last, rhythmic and relentless.

Leaning forward to murmur in Ben’s ear, gripping his hand on his shoulder, “Touch yourself, then, pet. I have places to be in the morning, more important than this sordid little hotel room. You’re no better than a mistress, a kept woman. You’re just my whore, aren’t you? I wonder if I can claim you as an expense.” he says, grabbing Ben’s sweaty hip for leverage. “I’m sure you would be thrilled to be stuffed with cock all fucking night long, wouldn’t you? Course you would. I can feel you clenching up around my cock. That feels so fucking good, doesn’t it? You like that, don’t you? Do you want to come for me, Ben? Should I blow my load inside you or all over you? Maybe you should sleep in it, the wet patch. Go on, pull yourself off, you dirty little shit. Yeah, you like that? Like that, there you go. "

Ben is quaking, his head bowed, his knees widening as Chris pounds him into the bed. They lose traction for a moment with the absolute frenzy of it all, the crown of Ben's head banging into the pale wood of the headboard.

_Thump, thump, thump._

He puts a hand up to brace himself even as Chris is forcing him face-down into the mattress. Ben yelps and chokes and nearly howls through his gag. he waits for Ben to come first, always, always waits. He spasms underneath Chris, who moves his hand just in time to catch him as he starts to come. It’s not a lot, he’s surely spent by now. His body is already starting to relax and go limp as Chris speeds up his tempo, looking at his cock and the vast expanse of white back stretched out before him. He doesn’t even think about what he’s doing as he holds Ben down and shoots stripes down his back.

His cock pulses in his hand, and then he reaches forward to untie the belt. Ben groans and coughs loudly. Chris wipes the spunk from his back with the bit of terrycloth, hoping that housekeeping will replace it tomorrow. He yawns and crawls to lay himself atop Ben, planting a kiss on the cluster of freckles between his shoulder blades. They lie like this for a while, arms entwined, bodies sticky. Neither of them says anything. Chris doesn’t even remember falling asleep, only waking up when Ben kicks him in the thigh some time after two in the morning. He sits up and sets the alarm on his phone for four-thirty, snags a slice of cold pizza from the box at the foot of the bed, and wonders what on earth tomorrow will bring.


End file.
